A Candle to Light Your Honour
by Kitty Ryan
Summary: The world of the Chandler family, though Tris's mother's eyes. A world of high necks, pride, respect, and clinching the most favourable deal. A world where abnormality never tolerated for long, or without pain.
1. Choosing the Wax

**A Candle to Light Your Honour**

_Kitty Ryan, 2003_

**

* * *

Chapter One:** Choosing the Wax**

* * *

**1013, the Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen.**

* * *

**_Two weeks before a wedding_**

* * *

**

"Ten silver astrels; not a crescent more!"

"Forgive me for saying so, Daughter Bidewell, but, considering the quality of the fabric, and the cost of importing, with taxes the way they are--"

"--Ten of silver, Fedwren, and if this is the best quality you can find, I _will_take my custom elsewhere."

"Daughter _Bidewell_, House Rightwork offers the finest goods in Capchen, and has for over ten generations."

"And shows poorly for all that, it seems. You claim this is Janaal made? I find it hard to believe you."

"Believe what you will, Darra. I'll only sell for three gold astrels."

Haggling was a familiar practice in the Diamond District, Ninver. The streets were a blaze of colour, everything from glazed pots to game pies displayed from the most flattering angles in every shop window. It had been called a beautiful place by all who went there, as soon as they became used to living with air that was full of demands and entreaties, each voice jostling to be heard over the hundreds of others as they fought for the best prices. At each attractive shop-front there was a pitched battle, and outside Fedwren Rightwork's Fine Fabrics, the stakes were particularly high.

Darra Bidewell glared up at her fellow merchant, leaning forward, elbows on the counter-top, invading his personal space. "Nothing you might possibly have, Fedwren," she said, slowly and clearly, "could ever be worth that much."

Fedwrenwas flustered, running a hand though his thinning hair; trying to look affronted. "I am simply offering you the best for your coming wedding, Daughter Bidewell."

Darra laughed, then, and smiled thinly. "You're trying to _cheat _a girl because she might have her head in the clouds over her coming wedding, _Mas-ter _Rightwork."

"No! No, not at all--"

"--Enough of that, now. I was only making a point. Besides, I might be willing to compromise, since I _am _feeling rather generous, as it happens. A gold crescent and three silver astrels."

"Two gold astrels and four silver crescents!"

"Two gold astrels, Fedwren."

"Thirteen gold crescents!" Fedwren glared at his customer, banging his own fist upon the counter.

Darra laughed. "I'm not a child, to be fooled by lesser coins making the same amount."

"But you're a child for asking what you can't afford!"

The eldest daughter of House Bidewell drew herself up. "I refuse to pay an excessive amount for anyone, Fedwren Rightwork, and certainly not for a jumped-up Hataaran. I'm offering far more than should be necessary as it is!"

Fedwren turned white at the insult, while Darra calmly straightened her spectacles. " One gold astrel," she said. "Three silver astrels, and a discount of an item of your choice at the Bidewell Apothecary."

A discount. The Bidewell family _never _offered discounts. "Are you…willing to sign for it?"

Darra glared. "What do you take me for? A pirate? Of course I'll sign for it."

Swallowing down a retort, Fedwren nodded, face grim. "We have an agreement, Daughter Bidewell."

"An agreement accepted, Master Rightwork." The girl spoke the formal words with a mocking glint in her blue eyes. "I shall expect my purchase to be delivered to house Bidewell early tomorrow. Payment shall be made then. May your business remain successful."

With a polite smile, Darra left the shop, head held high, steps brisk, and head full of triumph over her acquisition of first class fine-weave Janaal fabric, bought at less than half of its four gold crescent price. Fedwren watched her go with a mixture of self-disgust and grudging admiration. _House Chandler's got a wealth in you, girl_.

* * *

"Oh, you've done your family proud!" 

Ana Bidewell hugged her daughter tight as soon as she heard the news. Declan, her older brother, had spun her around the room. Her two younger sisters had looked at Darra in awe.

Darra blushed. "I wish I could do better, but the cloth is so lovely, and I just _had _to have it somehow. The discount was the only way I could think of clinching the deal."

Ana shrugged. "It's less than perfect, but you didn't specify how _much _of a discount, did you?"

"What do you take me for, Ma?"

Ana grinned, and stroked back her daughter's hair. "That's my girl."

Darra flopped down into a chair, smiling brightly. "Fedwren thought he could confuse me, just because I'm engaged, the stupid man."

Her mother snorted, rolling her eyes to the heavens. "I doubt very much could confuse you, my dear. Much less Fedwren. Now, how much of a train do you want on your wonderful dress?"

"None!" Darra stared at the plump woman, looking mildly outraged. "I don't want all Ninver to think I'm some cheap harlot!"

Ana smiled, looking at her daughter and feeling an overwhelming sense of pride. Darra was not beautiful. Her face was intense and angular; her chin was too sharp, her colour too high, her light blue eyes too narrow and too calculating behind their glasses. But she was neat, and clever, and had wonderful presence, as well as landing one of the most profitable marriages in Capchen. She couldn't ask for anything more in the girl, except, possibly, a grandchild--and Darra, barely twenty-one, had plenty of time for _that_. "I was just testing you, dear."

"Did I pass?"

"Of course you did," said Ana, smiling and reaching over to hug the girl again. "You've made our name a truth for us."

* * *

Residence of Uraelle Chandler, Highheld Hill, Ninver, Capchen.

* * *

_Eight days before a wedding_

* * *

"Stand _still_, Valden! If you keep squirming the measurements will be off, and it'll be a waste of fabric." 

Valden Chandler submitted himself to his cousin's pinpricking and glaring. Uraelle was old; she deserved some luxuries that she didn't have to buy. _Besides_, he thought, blushing a little, _after the ceremony, I wont be thinking about clothing. At all._

The man was brought back to life with a hard prick in the arm. "You look like a loon, staring into the distance like that. A wedding is _nothing _to get glazed eyes over."

Valden looked at Uraelle. Old enough to be his great aunt, pinched, gaunt and with a formidable temper, she was one of the more scary of his relatives. Brilliant, but terrifying. The idea that this woman, who had refused point blank to marry at any time in her life--"To keep the name of Chandler pure!"-- glazing over about _anything _was laughable. She scoured romance from everything she touched, particularly weddings. She'd arranged Murris and Emmines', and Johan's with that protege of hers--Gretchen Tanner--only last month. Now it was his turn, with Darra Bidewell. Images of penetrating, angry blue eyes and long, dark red hair forced into unwilling submission with plaits and pins flashed through his mind, and he smiled.

"Ugh! _Val_den!" Uraelle glared at him, her own, grey, eyes annoyed. "You've no reason to keep doing that. This is your _duty_, not some wasteful pleasure jaunt! Besides, Daughter Bidewell is far from ideal. Her family expects too much in return for this marriage, and you've nothing to offer the girl, being too old for her, and the youngest son." The old woman sniffed, snipping off a loose thread. "At least she and my Gretchen have been known to get along."

Valden cheerfully ignored her. He was very good at it.

* * *

The Bidewell Apothecary, Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen.

* * *

_Two days before a wedding_

* * *

"How can you be so _calm_, Darra?" Gretchen Chandler, wide-eyed and very recently married, sat in her friend's bedroom, sewing. She looked every inch the little housewife, her wavy, mouse brown hair pinned up as a respectable married woman's should be, and her hands and needle flying over the dark blue cotton of one of Darra's soon-to-be new dresses. But her voice was that of a little girl's, still, and her face was flushed and eager with an adolescent excitement she couldn't contain. Darra noticed this andfound it hard to ignore the urge to sneer. 

"What else am I to be?" she asked, laughing. "It's a waste of time, fretting. I've worked hard, and deserve this, and with Uraelle in charge, the only things that could go wrong are minuscule."

Gretchen looked at her, bemused. "Aren't you…nervous?"

Darra shrugged. "A little bit, I suppose," she said, tone half-affectionate and half exasperated. "I mean, it would be a _dreadful _thing if I went though my wedding with a hole in my skirt, or if Val tripped on the steps, clumsy as he is, and everyone saw."

"No-o," said Gretchen, shaking out the now finished dress. "I meant, nervous about, you know, _after_."

"Gretchen!" Darra, flushing, glared at her friend, looking appalled. "That's not the sort of thing I think we should be talking about. Or _think _about, really. I'll do my duty when the time comes, and that's all anybody needs to know, thank you very much." A pin was slipping from her hair--Darra forced it back to its place, driving it into her scalp so hard it left a scratch. "Besides," she muttered, blushing. "You would know more about those…matters, than I."

Gretchen had never seen the other girl so uncomfortable. It was disturbing, though she couldn't help feeling a little bit pleased that Darra had any awkward spots at all. It would have been lovely to tease her about it, just a little, but…no. That would be cruel. "I'm sorry, Darra. Didn't mean to pry."

Darra glared ferociously at her own needlework. "Doesn't matter, really."

Gretchen sighed, trying to think of something, _anything_ that might lighten the atmosphere. "Darra?"

"Gretchen."

"You know, I think…I just might be…don't tell anyone yet, but…"

Oh, please _hurry up. _

"You might what?" 

"I might be…well…expecting!"

Darra stared, taking in the woman's tiny frame. "Al_ready_?"

"Mmph-hmph!"

Darra carefully put her sewing away before she did anything else, and then hugged her, feeling horribly out of her depth. "That's…wonderful, love."

"Isn't it just? Just imagine if you fell, too, then we'd be mothers together."

The gleeful tone in Gretchen's voice was setting Darra on edge. _Mothers together_, she thought, fighting another blush. _And it wouldn't take a Seer to tell who would raise the better child._

"We'll just have to see what happens after the wedding", Darra said firmly, at last.

"Oh, you're so _practical_, Darra!"

"And that's meant to be a fault?"

* * *

The Temple of Asaia and Tuhengri Stormlord, Ninver, Capchen.

* * *

_A wedding_

* * *

If Uraelle had been an entirely different sort of person, with fewer morals than tongue, she would be cursing. Every member of the family coming to the Temple had congratulated her on another wedding masterfully arranged, complimenting everything from the food to the bride, but she knew, in her heart, that their was little substance behind the (often shamefully painted) smiles. Valden looked so nervous it appeared as if he were preparing to wed a trollop instead of any woman, and his ludicrous brown curls just _wouldn't _lie flat. Ana Bidewell and the rest of her all too numerous family were looking down their long noses at everything and anything, even though _they _were the ones receiving more of a benefit with this match, and Gretchen was hanging on to her husband's arm, giggling in a _most _unseemly way. Uraelle knew she would have to take her in hand about that, later. Nothing was ever _satisfactory_, in this life. It was upsetting. 

Grimly, she looked over the congregation, wincing at the badly cut dress here, reproving a glass too full of expensive wine there. The temple _looked _beautiful, all clean and neat with warm lighting and wonderful yellow drapery, the gold statues of Asaia Birdwinged and Tuhengri Stormlord glittering from their raised platform, radiating their virtues of strength, achievement and intellect, but the human element left much to be desired.

Then Darra entered the main hall.

Valden stared, the relatives muttered approvingly. Uraelle resisted the temptation of shrugging. The cream, suitably high-necked dress with its subtle blue embroidery suited the girl, with her head held high, glasses clean, and hair appropriately neat and plaited, despite its frivolous colour. _She'll pass_, Uraelle thought, as Darra's voiced her vows of fidelity, strength and patience, her eyes defying, just that little bit.

Things did, at that moment, seem to bide well for the Chandlers.

If only that fool cousin of mine wouldn't look so smitten

* * *

**Disclaimer:** Capchen, Ninver, Darra, Trisana Chandler, Uraelle, Valden, Murris, and Emmine belong to Tamora Pierce. 


	2. Sketching the Pattern

**A Candle to Light Your Honour**

_Kitty Ryan, 2003_

**

* * *

Chapter Two:** Sketching the Pattern**

* * *

**1013, Bidewell Apothecary, Diamond District, Ninver**

* * *

**_The day after a wedding_**

* * *

**

"I'm not sure whether to offer congratulations or condolences, Mistress Bidewell."

Ana shrugged, watching Fedwren Rightwork as he ran careful fingers over packets of herbs on her shelves, taking an eyeglass in and out of his jacket pocket to read the carefully inked lettering. She wondered how a man of his age could be so vain as to think a lack of spectacles would make him look better. "Give me both, and then I'll tell you they're appropriate," she said, weighing out half a pound of crushed arrowroot on a set of brass scales.

"What I mean to say," said Fedwren, "is that I absolutely no idea whether you should be mourning the loss of such a formidable daughter," he smiled in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with humour, "or celebrating the gain of a son."

Another shrug. "Something of both, Master Rightwork, if it's any of your business." Grimly, Ana watched the man fingering another packet. "You're planning to buy, as well as gossip?"

Fedwren smirked, eyes dancing, and took down a packet of dried yarrow heads. "But of course, Mistress Bidewell."

He wants a skin moisturiser?

Smiling, Ana Bidewell took the packet, checking the price that was written in the top right-hand-corner, even though she knew it backwards, in five languages. "That will be two gold astrels and a silver crescent, Master Rightwork. May it be as effective for you as it is for my grandmother."

"G-grandm-moth…gol-old cres…_two_--!"

"--Something the matter, Fedwren?"

Master Fedwren Rightwork looked from Ana, to his bulging-eyed reflection in the brass scales, to the packet of crushed flower heads. "This is ludicrous!"

"Oh no, sir, it's exceptionally generous."

Fedwren was just about to storm out of the apothecary, pride or no, when realisation dawned. "Aha!"

Ana merely raised an eyebrow.

"Mistress Bidewell, I really should offer you condolences over your daughter's recent marriage. Your family has given away someone in the possession of far _more _than exceptional generosity." Triumphant, the fabric merchant dug around in his pockets for a while, before fishing out a crumpled bit of parchment.

"What's this, then?" Ana looked at the object with mild interest.

Fedwren thrust it at her, ink-side-up. "A _discount_!"

"Oh." Holding said discount up to the light, Ana Bidewell read:

"This paper certifies that Master Fedwren Rightwork, head of Fedwren Rightwork's Fine Fabrics of the Diamond District, Ninver, in the Royal State of Capchen, is awarded a monetary discount at the Bidewell Apothecary.

Tuhengri Stormlord witness,

Darra Analise Bidewell, daughter of Mistress Analise Bidewell, of the Bidewell Apothecary, in the year 1013."

"And so you _see_, Ana," Fedwren said cheerfully. "I have a discount to be considered. The fact that Darra is now a Bidewell-Chandler does not make it any less viable."

"Of course, Fedwren. Of course. How silly of me to forget." Putting down the discount, Ana took up the yarrow packet again, considering. "Two percent, Fedwren."

"What?"

"You have a discount, sir, but the amount is up to me."

"You cheating, manipulative--"

"--Master _Rightwork_! I'll have you thrown out if you continue to make such accusations! I am perfectly within my rights to do so, _and _to choose the level of discount. I am the Mistress here."

"You can't seriously consider two percent a--"

"--Oh, but I do. Perhaps, just because I am so _happy _over Darra's wedding, I'll throw in a garlic clove, for luck."

"You…you…I… how can you…may you and your daughter be shamed in front of all, _Mistress _Bidewell!"

The door slammed.

Ana laughed, lovingly putting the yarrow back on its shelf. "Asaia bless you, my clever, clever girl."

* * *

Residence of Valden and Darra Chandler, Illian Way, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

_One week after a wedding_

* * *

Valden Chandler sat up in bed, to watch his wife brush her hair. 

Local gossip had it that Capchen's princess, Marietta Ninversdoril, brushed her long tresses (were they golden? Silvery-blonde? Or midnight black? No one who cared about such details could ever decide, as so few had ever seen her) for one thousand strokes. It seemed that Darra was trying to match her. She was already dressed, despite the early hour, in practical, dark blue skirts and petticoats, and a white blouse buttoned so far up the neck the only flesh that could be seen belonged to her face and hands. Her hair hung almost to her waist, clean and vibrant and the only unrestricted looking thing about her. Valden winced as she picked up her pins. "I wish you wouldn't do that."

"Do what?" Darra's eyes were a little bemused in the mirror.

"Pin your hair up like that. It's done nothing to you, and looks so beautiful when it's free."

The eyes sharpened, and Darra's mouth curved in a quick, tight smile. "Don't be absurd," she said.

Valden hauled himself out of bed, shrugging into a dressing gown taken from the doorknob. "It's early in the morning, in my home, with my beautiful wife." Smiling broadly, Valden stood behind her, gently taking up her hair in his hands. "I'm allowed to be absurd once on a while."

Darra stiffened, turning her head so she couldn't see her blushing reflection. "Val…."

Valden sighed, letting go of her hair. "You need to relax, my love."

"And you need to get some clothes on! Honestly, your brothers must be up and making a profit in the District, now." Darra looked sidelong at her husband, face still pink, but more from exasperation than anything else. "I don't understand how you can be content as you are, living in a house you rent from your cousin, and being known as 'just the Chandler's youngest son'."

"Do _you _think I'm 'just the youngest son', Darra?" Valden's voice was very quiet.

Darra stared at him, unnerved. "No! I never have!" Swallowing, she looked away again, gathering her hair back so she could plait it. "I lo…I know you…you could be so much more than what you--"

"--Then I have achieved my only ambition." Valden, face deadly serious, tilted Darra's head to face him, and kissed her.

* * *

Residence of Uraelle Chandler, Highheld Hill, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

The door was heavy, ancient mahogany, undressed except for polish, and it always creaked as it opened. 

It was creaking now.

"Mistress Darra, welcome. Mistress Chandler is in the upstairs parlour."

Darra, red-in-the face and breathless from her climb up the hill on which the oldest Chandler residence sat, swept past Uraelle's one and only maid, Hillary, without a second glance. People did not hang about talking to household drudges when summoned by the family matriarch.

_A family matriarch with a ghastly preference for steep climbs,_ she thought acidly, as she started on two flights of stairs, petticoats hampering a desire to stride them three at a time, just to get them over with.

Uraelle was waiting at the top of the staircase, tapping a finger on the banister. "Darra, my dear, thank you for coming." The courtesies sounded odd and stilted, coming from her lips. Uraelle knew this as much as anyone else, turning on her heel and walking briskly into the parlour, expecting the much younger woman to follow.

She did. "It was no trouble at all, cousin Uraelle," Darra murmured, looking respectfully at the toes of her shoes.

Uraelle closed the door. "Look at me, girl! You're family now. There's no need for you to carry yourself like a servant. I won't have it said that I treat my cousins' wives without respect."

Darra looked up, raising an eyebrow. "Why would anyone ever say that, cousin Uraelle?"

A short laugh. "Darra Chandler, you seem to be in a different league from my son, or from Emmine, or Gretchen, Healtouch bless the child. And I don't need to know you well to see that you have different priorities."

"Priorities, cousin?"

Uraelle nodded. "You have ambition, my girl. You didn't marry Valden for love alone. We both know that. "

"Please, don't remain standing on my account," said Darra, sweetly. "You look tired."

The old woman smiled thinly, and remained on her feet. "And you look harmless."

"Perhaps, cousin, we both make an effort to appear as what we are not. Or we are simply reading far too much into one another.

Uraelle yawned discreetly behind her hand, eyes unreadable. "I am a little tired after all, it seems. Forgive an old woman with older bones for sitting."

"Of course, cousin Uraelle, there is nothing to forgive." Darra sat down on the un-upholstered teak chair behind her, careful of her skirts. "Except," she caught the woman's eyes for a moment, before turning her gaze meekly to her lap, "perhaps, a harmless girl who is not everything the head of the family could want in a wife for a beloved son."

"Oh, I think not," Uraelle muttered. "You see this candle?" in an abrupt change of subject, she pointed towards a slim, tapered creation of wax on the mantelpiece.

"The one done in beeswax, cousin Uraelle?"

"Yes, girl, that one. Price it for me."

Darra stood. "May I?"

"Of course."

Nodding, Darra took the candle of the mantelpiece, weighing it in her hands. "Hmm…it's solid, right enough. No sparing on materials here, Smooth feel, would melt quickly, but give off a lovely perfume, so you might be able to sell it as an aromatic. Tie a red ribbon around the base, and you might get another three coppers labelling it for luck, or add two drops of poppy to sell it as herbal. Fractionally more expensive for us, but we'd make a profit quickly enough, with all those fools who want magical solutions for their sleeping problems--and the shape would make it a way to win over folk who like pretty things. Say…one silver astrel, three copper creses'? What was the make-price? And the maker?"

"It was seven copper crescents, Darra, with some half-hour of labour. The maker was your husband."

"Never!"

Uraelle smiled. "There are many things you don't know about your new family, girl, but, if you can sell that candle for that much, then I'll admit you know about pricing. Very neat indeed."

Darra blushed, and mentally kicked herself for it. Uraelle Chandler put her on edge. It wasn't a feeling she was used to. _And colouring from the smallest praise won't help you, you stupid woman!_

"I suppose you know that Gretchen is expecting?"

Darra jumped. "Ye-es… I had been told."

"Of course. You and my Gretchen were always close, I remember. Always doing so many things together. Well, there's nothing to stop you now."

"Pardon?"

"My cousin is very much in love with you, my dear girl." Uraelle spoke with unusual warmth in her voice, making Darra excruciatingly uncomfortable. She struggled to keep her face level. "You should be expecting soon, yourself, if all goes as the gods intend marriages to go."

Uraelle, you manipulative, shrivelled up old biddy; this is none of your business_…_

Darra had to hide her eyes, for fear of her cousin seeing the anger in them. "Yanna Healtouch willing, cousin."

"Yes, Darra. Well, if you have a girl, I have a request for a name."

Darra looked up again, then, smile just on the dangerous side of mocking. "A request that I am sure you would like to see in writing, with three people as witnesses, when the time comes."

Uraelle took the candle from her, holding it protectively in her lap. "I see we understand eachother."

"Perfectly."

"Her name will be Trisana Uraelle."


	3. Adding Heat to the Melting Pot

**A Candle to Light Your Honour**

_Kitty Ryan, 2003_

**

* * *

Chapter Three:** Adding Heat to the Melting Pot**

* * *

**1014, Lise Cartwell's Creations, the Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen.

* * *

_Seven months after a wedding_**

* * *

** Adding Heat to the Melting Pot 

"We have an agreement, Mistress Darra."

"Agreement accepted, Daughter Cartwell."

Lise Cartwell nodded, as was expected, and started wrapping up soft, pastel-green blankets into a neat parcel. "Two silver astrels, if you please, and a copper crescent."

Darra nodded, rather grimly, and took out the money. "That copper crescent is a worthless profit, you know," she said, quietly.

Lise grinned, taking up the coins and pocketing them. "Every penny counts, Mistress Darra. We both know that."

"Forgive me for asking, but, what age does the New Year make you, this time?"

The girl laughed at her customer's formality, flicking ashy-blonde hair behind her ears in a reflexive, childish movement. "Fourteen this Sap Moon, Mistress."

Darra raised an eyebrow. "You work well, for someone so young."

Lise managed, with an effort, to suppress a giggle. "The same could be said for you. Then, of course, Mama always did say you were twenty-one going on sixty-three, if you'll pardon my saying."

Darra's smile faded. "There's nothing to pardon, my dear," she said, coolly.

Lise swallowed, realising her tactlessness. "You've chosen some _beautiful _blankets, Mistress Darra," she almost trilled, handing over the parcel. "Are they a gift for Mistress Gretchen, or--"

"--Of course they're for Gretchen, girl."

"Oh. I just thought, maybe, that you might have…well, found out some special news of your own, and were just being _very _organised about it, if you know wha--"

"--I'm sure you'll know if I have any 'special news' long before I do, Daughter Cartwell." Darra, smiling thinly, took hold of her purchase. "And I am terribly glad you approve of my gift choice. I'll remember to come to the next time I have any difficulties."

"Please do!" said Lise, with a smile. Darra's sarcasm was either completely lost on the girl, or she was a dangerously good actress. "Lovely doing business with you."

"Likewise."

Darra Chandler waited until the door was closed behind her, and her back was to the ice-frosted glass, before she allowed herself to glare. _Insufferable little chit_.

"Something the matter, Mistress Darra?"

Fedwren Rightwork, his cheeks flushed with the cold of the early morning (_and from drink, most likely_, Darra thought, sourly) was standing opposite her, well-wrapped up in layers of clothes obviously of his own making. "You look a little peaky. Bad bargain?"

"A very good one, actually." Darra turned up her glare. "That Lise Cartwell," she said, maliciously, "is far too young to take over her father's business. She'll be destitute before the year is out, if her skills don't improve."

"Ah well, it takes time to straighten your crooked stitches," Fedwren murmured, in a tone that Darra assumed was meant to be wise.

"I am unfamiliar with that proverb, Master Rightwork."

Fedwren nodded, smiling humourlessly. "I didn't expect you to be anything else. A rather narrow lot, the Chandlers. Brilliant at what they do, but narrow." Still smiling, Fedwren made his fuming listener a courtly bow. "Send my regards on to dear Mistress Gretchen, despite the fact that she'll be bringing another one of your clan out into the world."

Darra turned on her low heel, putting all of her will into ignoring him.

Fedwren watched her go, back straight and furious, strains of hair escaping their pins, and swallowed laughter.

* * *

Lise started as Master Rightwork walked quickly into her shop, with the most intense expression in his eyes she'd ever seen. 

"Can I help you?"

Fedwren turned to look at her, intense eyes and all, and Lise blushed.

"My dear young woman," he said in a low voice, a little breathlessly. "I think you can."

"Well, Master Rightwork, we have--"

"--Call me Fedwren, please. Your father, Yanna preserve his soul, was too good a friend of mine for you and I to stand on ceremony. "

Lise's blush deepened. "Please, sir, it wouldn't be proper."

"You _have _grown up, Daughter Cartwell. " Fedwren leaned on Lise's highly polished counter, tracing his fingers over a knot in the grain. "It is…astounding."

Lise swallowed, backing away until she hit the wall. "I'm not at all sure if we should be having this conversation," she whispered, voice thick.

"Well then, how about we steer it in another direction, ey?"

"Y-yes. I think we should."

The much older fabric merchant straightened, eyes shining. "How much of a profit did you make just then, with the Chandler woman? She seemed rather…overwrought."

* * *

Residence of Johan and Gretchen Chandler, Wellcross Road, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

"I _hate _it!" 

The day was almost over, a pervasive, lingering winter chill settling over the land as, blurred by the haze of chimney smoke and workhouse fumes, an insanely orange sun dipped below the horizon. Most of Ninver's respectable shops were having their doors barred, while those of a more suspect nature were hesitantly beginning to open. Fedwren Rightwork was surprising all that knew him by taking a certain pale, very pretty girl out to dinner, and in Johan Chander's house--very well situated, at the foot of Highheld Hill--Gretchen was confined to bed.

Darra sighed. "Hate what?" she asked, even though she more than knew the answer.

"I hate being _pregnant_!" Gretchen had been wailing for well past half-an-hour, face flushed, hair dishevelled, and being generally disagreeable. Darra knew her friend had an excuse, of course, but couldn't help wishing the woman would carry her problems with a little more dignity. As it was, however, and knowing that it wasn't exactly appropriate to voice these irritations, Darra limply patted her hand.

"Hush now, Grechen, it'll be over s--"

"--Ooh, _stop that_!"

Darra glared. She was perfectly prepared to keep her friend company, but she didn't have to listen to her act like an idiot. "You're being absolutely revolting, woman. Calm down."

Gretchen flinched, pulling her hand away and sliding under the blankets until only a tearful, blotchy face showed. "You're being horrible, Darra Chandler. I don't deserve this, not in my condition."

"Oh, but you do. Anyone who acts like a fool must be treated far worse than a fool," Darra said primly, quoting her mother. "I _know _you're feeling hot and disgusting, and you're sick of everyone and their aunt speculating about a baby that must seem like it's taking forever to be born, but, for everyone's sakes, it's much better to keep up appearances." Smiling, Darra pulled the blankets back and, gently but firmly, helped Gretchen sit up. "Just imagine what your _husband _will think, when he comes home to find that his beloved wife is a complete wreck."

Gretchen bit her lip, eyes reproachful.

"There, there, now. I know I sound like I'm being awful, but you have to admit I'm right."

"I…I s-suppose so, Darra," Gretchen muttered, not looking at her. "I hope Johan will be back in time for the birth. I miss him so much!" The woman looked up again, shivering a little. "Do you miss Valden?"

"What a silly question! Of course I do."

"I've…I've been feeling like I just can't cope, with him gone, with _all _the men gone, on that silly trading foray of theirs. Emmine feels the same. I wish they'd come back."

Why _do I have to be surrounded by women who can barely have an intelligent thought on their own_? Darra wondered, desperately. "It's a very important trip, Gretchen. You know that. And won't you like it when they come back so much the richer for it?"

Grechen nodded.

"Well, then, it's rather selfish of you to complain about it. Besides, we're more than capable of surviving on our own."

"You're so much _braver _than I am, Darra!"

Darra grinned, though she wanted nothing more than to roll her eyes. "There's nothing brave about fending for oneself. It's simply living."

"Not the kind of living _I _enjoy."

Darra looked around the room, with its needlessly luxurious furnishings, and the Bihan tapestry on one wall that was nothing but redundant, and shook her head.

"Darra?"

"Gretchen?"

"I'm sorry, and thank you so much for the blankets."

Darra carefully tucked some flyaway hair behind Gretchen's ear. "Apology accepted, and no trouble at all."

The two women sat in silence for a long while. The last rays from the orange sun faded, first to yellow, to grey, and then into nothing at all. Fedwren Rightwork lingered for rather too long outside Daughter Cartwell's door, after respectfully seeing her home.

"Darra?"

"Gretchen?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"You just have."

"Well, another thing."

"I'm not stopping you."

"Could you be with me, when the baby's born?"

"…Yes, dear. If that's what you want."

"You're just too wonderful! Even though you always sound like a martyr when you talk to me."

* * *

Residence of Johan and Gretchen Chandler, Wellcross Road, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

_Eight months after a wedding_

* * *

Birth, Darra decided, had to be the most disturbing thing in the universe. And certainly the most disgusting. 

Starting from the first groan, and ending with a wail and a rush of blood and other unmentionable things, Darra now knew that she had witnessed true horror on earth. She also, for the first and only time in her life, wished that Uraelle had a little less of her trademark thrift. The mentally scarred young woman knew things would have been at least a little bit _cleaner _if her cousin had just taken the effort to bend and bring in a real midwife.

Darra shuddered--after making sure she was well out of sight, behind the bedroom door--for what was possibly the hundredth time that day. She knew she would have to go back into Gretchen's room, soon, she'd only been allowed to leave, briefly, so she could clean up.

I just hope they've somehow managed to get rid of the smell

"Darra…?"

Gretchen's faint voice, coming out of her room.

Darra bit back a groan, and stepped back into the fray, only just missing Uraelle as she walked determinedly through her intended path with a bowl of steaming water.

"Out of my _way_, girl."

"Sorry, cousin Uraelle."

Uraelle turned to look at her, eyes intrigued. "You look a little pale, Darra. Anyone would think you've never seen a woman give birth before."

"That's because I haven't, cousin Uraelle."

"But you have siblings, I believe. Two younger girls…?"

"My mother always insisted on having midwives."

Uraelle sniffed. "Pointless extravagance, I call it."

Darra stepped neatly out of her cousin's way. "It never did us any harm, cousin Uraelle."

Uraelle said nothing, just brushing past Darra and putting a cool cloth to Gretchen's forehead, radiating disapproval.

I don't need _your acceptance, woman_, Darra thought bitterly to herself, glaring at an unfortunate maid for folding leftover sheets clumsily.

need , Darra thought bitterly to herself, glaring at an unfortunate maid for folding leftover sheets clumsily. 

"Darra…."

Oh, she'd forgotten about Gretchen. Hastily, Darra walked over to the bed, careful to stand on the other side to Uraelle. Looking down at her friend, Darra felt a small, uncomfortable twinge about how pale she was, and she couldn't understand why the new mother was _smiling_.

"Have a look at the baby," Gretchen whispered, holding out shaking arms full of a bundle that looked suspiciously red, despite all memories Darra had of it being dumped in water and wrapped in one of her own green blankets at least half an hour ago.

"Are you sure…?"

"Of course." Gretchen's faint smile widened. "I mean, if Johan were here, then he would be the first after me, but he's not, and you are, and you deserve to…."

Darra took the child, just to stop Gretchen from talking. She looked like she needed to save her air.

The baby was warm, and slightly damp. Its eyes were tightly shut in what looked like--at least to its new aunt's eyes--a horribly deformed, squashed in face. A face that looked even more monstrous as its mouth opened, shockingly, cavernously wide, and it started to scream.

* * *

Residence of Johan and Gretchen Chandler, Wellcross Road, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

Almost nine months after a wedding

Four people, and one baby, in a light and airy room, with pale-blue drapes hung about the windows. Two of them, men--one tall, and one broad--stood near a rather tired looking woman--the one holding the baby--who was half lying on a sofa. The second woman, small, stiff, and awkward, was standing further back, behind everyone else and closer to the door.

"So," said the tall main, quietly. "I have a little son."

Gretchen looked up at her husband adoringly, baby asleep in her arms. "Aymery Johannes Chandler."

Johan raised an eyebrow. "We've never had an Aymery in house Chandler before," he said, looking quizzically at what he'd just found out was his child. "Why didn't you wait until I was present before you came up with a name?"

Gretchen blushed, shamefaced. "I…I'm sorry, my love…but…"

"Hang on a minute, brother." Valden, identical to Johan from curly hair to recent travel-stains, save being a little plumper, a little shorter, his eyes just that little bit larger then the older man's, put out a hand in a soothing gesture. "The boy _is _about a month old, and you weren't exactly around to name him. I think Gretchen's done a wonderful job on her own. Aymery is a fine name. My own Darra couldn't have chosen any better."

Johan nodded, grudgingly, and stroked his wife's cheek. "I am very, very proud of you, dear. You have done your duty admirably. Now, may I see the boy?"

Gretchen smiled, looking, for an instant, truly beautiful. "I thought you'd never ask."

Valden turned away from that scene of pretty affection, to find that his own wife was doing the same. He walked over to her, eyes kind. "It'll be our turn before we know it," he said.


	4. And with Heat, Comes Fluidity

**A Candle to Light Your Honour**

_Kitty Ryan, 2003_

* * *

**Author's Note:** The Question of Aymery's Age 

Maths is not my thing. It never will be. But the timeline for this fic, and how it fits canonically, is something I've lost sleep over in the past. Here is how I've calculated the Chandler cousins' age difference.

Tris is eleven (she's said to be a year older than the ten-year-old Sandry) in Power in the Storm. (For American readers: Tris' Book). The year is 1036, making her birth-date some time in 1025. Aymery, in the same book, is cited as eleven years her senior, placing him at around the age of twenty-two/twenty-three. So, his birth would be in 1014. Well. That's how it worked out on my calculator.

* * *

**Chapter Four:** And with Heat, Comes Fluidity (subtitled: Gossip)

* * *

1016, Ninvesdor Heights, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

_Two years after a wedding_

* * *

Storm Moon, a month obviously named by someone with a love of concise accuracy and no imagination, was not a good time to be out in the open.

The wind was up, ripping at leafless branches, and making firs groan. The rain was down. Sheets of it. Heavy, hard and blinding. Cold was simply everywhere, while light came and went in jagged bursts from the sky--flickering fingers of it that came and went before thunder, silent as it threw the uneven, rocky landscape into sharp relief before slipping away and leaving the world in its windy, ink-black darkness.

"Master Rightwork..."

A soft, forlorn voice, belonging to a very wet Lise Cartwell, currently standing hunched up under a large fir, blinking the rain off her eyelashes, floated out into the night. "Master Rightwork, please...I want to go home."

"Don't stand under that tree, Lise!" The other voice was a much stronger one, though tinged with rather tired worry, now. Fedwren walked over to the girl, and firmly took her hand. "Do you _want_ to get hit by lightening?"

"I don't want to be here at all!" Lise glared half-heartedly at the man, but she was too wet, and too confused, to put much energy into her protests. Shivering, she reluctantly let herself be led out into the open.

"I didn't know it was going to rain, my dear," murmured Fedwren, motioning for her to sit on a rock.

Lise sniffed. "Have you looked at your calender recently? It's a month where it does nothing _but_ rain. If you take me back home I'll give you a discount on a new one, four copper creses'."

"I am sorry, Lise. Here, take my coat."

The girl took it gratefully, wrapping it around herself until only her head was exposed. "Won't you need it, Master Rightwork?" she asked, in a nervous-apologetic afterthought.

"Lise, you've known me properly for over a year now. Call me Fedwren."

Thunder boomed overhead, and Lise started, squeaking in fright. "Well, _please_, Fedwren, take me home. Why are we _here_, anyway?"

"It's private, and usually very beautiful."

The young merchant laughed, rather hysterically. Fedwren carefully eased an arm around her.

"Wh-what are you doing, Mas...Fedwren?" Lise shuddered again, a sudden flash of lightening illuminating her pale, worried face and wide eyes.

"Aren't you cold?" Fedwren's face, when shown by that same light, was warm and intense, and very close to her own.

"Y-y-yes."

"Well, I'm being a good friend, and keeping you warm." Something in the tone of his voice changed, about then. It became deeper, and softer, with a breathless quality. "There is nothing I cherish so much," he said, "as the thought of being your friend."

Lise was fast becoming overwhelmed. "We are friends, aren't we? You've been terribly good to me. Though," she managed a timid smile, "I don't think I'll be friendly any more, if you take me out in horrible weather like this."

Fedwren said nothing. He just looked at the forks of lighting that were so dangerously close to him, and held her closer.

Lise felt the tightening grip, and stiffened, trying to keep her cheek as far away from his shoulder as possible, despite how her body wanted to curve. "Are you all right?" she whispered. Then, when he couldn't, or wouldn't, hear her over the rain, she repeated the question, loudly. "Fedwren! Are you all right?"

Fedwren smiled, half looking at her. "I have a bargain to make with you, Lise Cartwell."

The girl blinked. "You do?"

"I do. I will take you home, and then you can go to sleep knowing that you have a friend who will always help you, no questions asked, and no matter the problem. I will care for you and defend you and make sure you are never--"

"--What is my part in this?" Lise managed to force herself out of the circle of his arm, and she stood. "And who says I need protection?"

Fedwren looked up at her, smiling. "I know you're wonderfully capable, my dear. But everyone needs someone to turn to. You can count on me for that."

"W-w-well, Fedwren, that's very generous. But...this is a bargain. What do I have to give?"

The old man stood, then, and stepped closer to her. "Let me court you."

_"What?"_

The two of them stood in the rain, and both were shaking for reasons that were entirely different while being almost the same. They both closed their eyes against another flash in the sky, and both couldn't suppress a jerky, in-drawn breath and a start at the thunder that followed it, frighteningly loud. Then, the girl backed away, shaking her head so that water-droplets flew about her in all directions.

"Oh, Lise..." Fedwren shadowed her, three steps behind. "Don't be afraid."

"I'm too young to be married!"

"You're fifteen. You'll be old enough soon. And I'm not proposing."

"I...I don't know what to _say_," Lise wailed, still backing away from him.

"Say yes."

"No! Well, that's not what I mean, but...oh, Asaia help me, if Papa were alive, you'd have to ask--"

"--But he's not, Lise. You're free to choose."

They were shouting over the storm, Lise's voice high and tremulous, Fedwren's earnest and cracking over the words. Lise felt like Fedwren wasn't just in front of her, but behind and on either side as well, and in her ears, the words echoing, over and over, in a relentless, bewildering downpour, more numbing then the rain.

_Free to choose...to choose...choose..._

"But...what will everyone _think?_" Lise felt exhausted. Shivering, she looked pleadingly at Fedwren, willing him to at least try and understand her. "My reputation! I'll be seen as a gold-digger, when I'm not. And if you want anything...anything _private_ from me, Master Rightwork, then you'd have to marry me, and I'm...I don't _need_ a husband. I want to make-do on my own, and I don't want to be seen as any cheap...as a fast girl."

Fedwren groaned, looked at her flushed face, and how her soaking woollen dress clung to her. He'd sold her that fabric. "You're a woman. No girl."

Lise didn't see the rock behind her, as she flinched away. With a shriek, she fell to the ground, into mud and twigs and dead pine needles. On her back, she sobbed. "A-all the re-respectable families. The Chandlers...the Bidewells and Resiners...I would be...they'd--"

"--Hang them," said Fedwren, kneeling beside her with more than a little difficulty. He sounded like he meant it. Gently, he eased Lise into a sitting position, and kissed her forehead.

Lise let herself go limp in his arms. "I want to go **_home_**. Fedwren, I beg you, just take me home."

The merchant slipped two fingers under Lise's chin, and tilted her head to face him. "We have an _agreement_, Daughter Cartwell."

As lightening flashed one last time overhead, Lise looked dully back at him. "Agreement accepted, Master Rightwork."

* * *

The Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

Gretchen bounced her baby in her arms, as she walked across the cobbled District, and he laughed at her. 

"You're your Ma's darling, aren't you just, Aymery?"

Gretchen Chandler had discovered early on that she loved motherhood very much indeed. Aymery was such a _lucky_ child, healthy and handsome, she was sure that her boy would break hearts one day, and the woman was exceptionally proud of herself for having him young enough so she'd be still alive to watch him while it happened. He even had her eyes.

"You're the best little boy in the whole-wide-world, and you know it," she whispered, bouncing him again.

Aymery giggled, then stared intently at his hand as he waved it in front of his face, looking as if he'd only just realised it belonged to him.

"Oh yes you are. You're going to grow up and make Daddy proud of you, and you'll do all _sorts_ of great things that your poor old Ma can't even imagine. Aren't you proud? What did that nice mage-y man say last week, Aymery?"

"Ma!" said Aymery.

"No, he didn't say anything about your Ma, lovie." Gretchen held the boy up in the air for a moment, glowing with pride. "He said all sorts of things about _you_. He said," Gretchen paused dramatically then, face deadly serious. "He said that you 'showed a great potential for excelling in the magical craft'! Don't you remember, beautiful? He said they'd have to test you properly when you were a great big four-year-old, but he thought you'd have a _very_ good chance of getting into Lightsbridge. Lightsbridge! That's all the way away in Karang! You'll be the first Chandler in existence who will be able say that he's a mage trained in Karang, and we'll all be terribly proud of you. Even your auntie Darra, who isn't proud of anything much except herself, but," here Gretchen lowered her voice until it was barely audible," never tell her I said that. Do you promise?"

Aymery blinked at her, smiling.

"I'll take that as a yes," said his mother, laughing self-consciously. "I love you to bits Aymer--oh! Lise dear, you look _terrible_."

Gretchen had just been passing the Bidewell Apothecary when she noticed Lise hovering near its doors, nose red, eyes redder, and breathing in a _most_ unpleasant way.

"Do I?" the girl asked, smiling ruefully. Gretchen winced at the nasal twang in what was usually a clear voice.

"I'm sorry, child, but you do. What on earth _happened_?"

Lise blushed. "Got caught in the rain."

Gretchen smiled indulgently at the younger girl. "Silly thing. You go in and see if you can find something to help you from Ana Bidewell's."

Lise nodded, glumly.

"Who's looking after the shop, if you're ill?" Gretchen was curious, in-spite of herself.

"I've closed it for the morning," muttered Lise, looking at the ground. "Though Fedwren...I mean, Master Rightwork, he told me he'd look after it for the afternoon--"

"--_Fedwren_?"

"Yes, Gretchen. I'm very much obliged to him," Lise said quickly, looking uncomfortable. "Is this your son?" she asked, with a quick smile.

The young mother drew herself up about half an inch. "Yes, this is Aymery," she trilled. "Would you like to hold him? Oh...well maybe not hold him, you being sick as you are, if you know what I mean, but...yes. This is Aymery."

"He's a very handsome boy."

"He is."

The two of them stood around for a while, silent, save Gretchen's whispered babbling to her son.

"Umm...Gretchen?"

"...Yes, you're a _big_ boy now, yes you are--oh! Yes, dear?"

"Do you know if Master Rightwork's ever been married before?"

Gretchen blinked, surprised. "Married? That old man? No. Come to think of it, I don't think he has. Why on earth do you ask?"

"We-ell..."

"You look _awfully_ pale, Lise, as well as sick." Gretchen put her hand of Lise's shoulder in a motherly fashion. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

* * *

'The Chandlry', Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

"Oh, Darra! You'll never guess." 

Darra looked up from her shop-front table, quill in one hand, and a soon-to-be-priced beeswax and lanolin taper in the other. She didn't blink at the sight of her sister-in-law's enthused expression, though she felt mildly sorry for baby Aymery, as he was being held in what looked like a grip of iron. With a tired smile, the woman adjusted her spectacles.

"Never guess what, Gretchen?"

"I saw little Lise Cartwell outside your mother's today, and she looked absolutely _wretched_--"

"--What of it?" Darra's smile became a quietly satisfied one.

"Well, she told me that she'd been caught out in the rain last night, the silly chit, and _then_ you see, she said something else which I find absolutely impossible to believe, let me tell you."

Darra grimaced, putting her quill down and holding up her, now free, hand. "Gretchen," she said, too sweet. "Tell me."

"In a moment, in a moment." Gretchen smiled mischievously at her friend, glad to have the upper hand for once. "Aymery and I also passed Mistress Posy Arcunam--you know, Lise's landlady? The one with the limp and the moustache? Well, we passed _her_, and I just happened to mention that Lise must have got home very late last night, and _she_ told me that Daughter Cartwell didn't get to the house until _one in the morning_."

Darra, listening intently, willed Gretchen to get to the point. "Disgraceful," she said. "And?"

"And," the happy orator continued, "Mistress Arcunam also said, in that gossipy way of hers, that Lise had been in an absolutely revolting state, dress all torn, sticks in her hair, and all shivery. Scandalously flushed, too, Mistress Arcunam said. But," said Gretchen, all breathlessness, "that's not the worst of it. Fedwren _Rightwork_ had 'escorted' Lise home, she told me, _and_--Posy saw this because she was still awake before they got in and had been looking out her window--Fedwren had had his _arm_ about Lise's _waist_ until they got to the gate!"

Darra smirked. "The little tart."

Gretchen covered Aymery's small ears. "That _might_ be a little strong, Darra," she said, thoughtfully. "But one just _has_ to think along those lines, given the circumstances. Especially since Lise told me that Fedwren's asked to court her--"

"--I doubt _that_ very much," said Darra, acidly. "Fedwren's fifty years old. Married life would probably kill him. Lise is just trying to salvage some of her reputation."

"Do you really think so?"

"Would I say anything that I didn't think?"

"No, Darra. But...Lise is only a little girl, really. Surely she couldn't--"

"--Too young for courting, old enough for bedding."

"Ugh! You're bordering on vulgar, now."

"At least I haven't crossed the border!"

A loud sneeze could be heard, and Lise walked into the shop. All was silent.

Lise felt two sets of eyes, one dismayed and curious, the other cold and chokingly disapproving, on her while she perused the shelves. The silence, with those gazes, was stifling, and Lise felt that, every time she sneezed, she'd committed some terrible offence. When she finally turned to the two women, holding a small poppy-spiked aromatic, she flinched.

"Mistress Darra, how much for this, if you please?"

"Two silver astrels." Darra looked down her nose at the girl, spectacle-frames catching the watery light from outside.

Lise stared at her, disbelieving. "T-t-that's absurd!"

Smiling thinly, Darra shrugged. "Take it or leave it, Daughter Cartwell. I don't barter with sluts."

* * *

Residence of Fedwren Rightwork, Highback Street, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

Fedwren had given himself a holiday. The soaking of the night before was starting off a cold, he was sure of it, and he just couldn't deal with the thought of a full-blown one just now. Besides, his profits were always up this time of year. He could afford a rest. 

So, the merchant had ensconced himself in a chair in his study, patchwork blanket around his knees and glass of spiced wine from Hatar in his hands. It was a time for warmth and reflection, Fedwren having a need to reflect on rather a lot of things.

"Daughter Lise Cartwell to see you, sir."

Fedwren's manservant, Rickson, materialised in the doorway.

"Really?" The man was surprised. He'd never expected Lise to visit him here, though he'd quietly fantasised over the idea once or twice.

"Yes, sir. She seems very...urgent, sir."

"Fedwren Rightwork, I need to talk to you _now_."

Lise's voice carried all the way up the stairs, which was no mean feat. Fedwren jumped at the sound of it. "You're right," he said. "She does, rather. Send her up."

"As you wish, sir."

Fedwren was just practical enough to know that late-night Hearth Moon dreams did not unfold themselves before his eyes in reality, so he was worried. For Lise to be here, something dreadful must have happened. She'd been burgled, or bankrupted, or--Fedwren looked at the figure now standing in the doorway--become very, very ill.

Eyes and nose streaming, swaying on her feet, Lise glared at him with over-bright eyes.

"Oh, my dear," Fedwren breathed, "you look--"

"--I look like death, you bastard. You took me to the Heights in the rain and I'm completely _ruined_."

Seeing Lise angry was something like being in the path of a rabid, slightly disoriented sparrow, but Fedwren was still shocked. "Because I took you out in the rain?"

Lise crumpled, with no warning and a long, drawn out wail. The carpet she landed on was a luxurious, beautifully woven creation from Kugisko, Narmorn--all beautiful violet and burnt-orange colourings and geometric designs. Lise sobbed into it, hair in a wild mess all around her, fists clenched.

Fedwren, full of a terrified sort of awe, let her cry it all out, not moving from his chair. It took her a very long time to calm down. "What happened to you today, my love?"

Lise shuddered. "Don't call me that!" she snapped, voice gone almost to nothing. "Darra Chandler found out about you and me, and...last night. By now it'll be all around the town that I'm your cheap whore." Lise sobbed again--a sob that cut as it came, without the relief of tears. "No one will do business with me soon, and everything I've done, it'll all go to waste. Just because you were trying to be _romantic_." Stiff-backed, the girl stood up, and weakly tried to tidy her hair. Lise's eyes were despairing. "I nearly had the Yanjing trade deal sealed, Fedwren. But it'll probably fall through now, you know." She laughed softly, turning away from him. "The people there are like Darra," she said. "They don't deal with sluts."

Fedwren got out of his chair, and walked out into the middle of the room, facing Lise. His lips were pinched tight. "_I'll_ deal with Darra," he said.


	5. Finding the Mould

**A Candle to Light Your Honour**

_Kitty Ryan, 2003_

* * *

**Chapter Five: **Finding the Mould

* * *

1016, The Interchangeable Royal (Long Live the Princess!), Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

_Two years after a wedding--a day after a chapter_

* * *

"You'll be having, Master Valden?"

Valden Chandler smiled tiredly at the barman of the Interchangeable, brown curls falling into his eyes. Slowly, he nodded. "A pint, if it's no trouble, Henery."

The barman rolled his eyes. "You, man, are too damn polite." Muttering, he took down a pint-glass from the shelf behind him, the yellow, almost-oily lamplight from all around making a dazzling reflection on his bald head. The other people at the bar took no notice of the man's apparent disdain, except to smile affectionately at Valden. They were all well used to Henery Maltster and his quirks.

Valden chuckled; taking his glass after it was filled. "_Someone _has to be, I suppose."

Henery shrugged. "'Tis true enough, that. Your Namorn trip's gone well, then."

A slow, pleased flush came over the younger man's round face, and he took a pull at his drink, enjoying the tendrils of warmth spreading through his body. "Aye," he said. "Aigri Island certainly seems to want Ninver trade, now. How'd you guess?"

"Well, you're here, idiot. If you'd come back this morning and things were…messy, that witch of a Uraelle wouldn't be letting you near _my _fine establishment, and nor would that sharp little wife of yours, neither. You just haven't got the look of a hunted man."

"You're a malicious gossip," Valden muttered, but he quirked a smile. "I see you've changed your sign."

The barman grinned, knowingly. "Oh yes. Marietta, bless her, is so close to coming of age that there's no point in waiting, to my mind. You know what I say, Valden-lad, speed--"

"--'Is the essence of competition'." Valden rolled his eyes as he recited along with the old man, while inwardly wondering what sort of a mind Henery really had, in naming his inn after _all _the Capchenite royalty, as they lived and died.

In one of the dark corners of the room, a man lounged against the worn, brown leather of one of Henery's armchairs. He was very tall, and quite old--the bony knobs of his shoulders clearly defined from underneath a perfectly tailored shirt of a dark, vaguely lilac-tinted grey. That shirt, unusual amongst the whites and dark blues and greens favoured by Ninver men, set him apart, as did the wide-legged, flowing trousers he had on, clinched at the waist by a wide strip of dark red fabric that looked more like a lady's sash than a belt. The man managed to compensate this outlandish appearance by having an air of absolute familiarity. He _belonged _in that chair, watching the customers' comings and goings through tobacco smoke, with empty glasses littering the floor around his feet. Everyone always said that Fedwren Rightwork had to be the most _local _man they had ever met.

And he was looking at Valden now, blue eyes bloodshot and half-open. "Welcome to your home, O weary traveller."

Several people groaned. Valden just looked amused, and walked slowly over to the fabric merchant, drink in hand. "What are you quoting now, Fedwren?"

"Nothing you'd know, sh… so I won't bother answering." Fedwren tried to open his eyes wider, so he could look sardonic--but couldn't quite manage it. "A lot's been happening, round aboutsh, while you've been gone," he said, only slurring every odd word.

"Such as?"

Fedwren grinned blearily, and raised an empty glass in a toast. "An absolute _deluge _of things!"

This time, Valden did groan. "You, man,are drunk."

"Yesh. Yesh, I am. How obsh…how observant of you. But I'm a lucky barshtard, with a pretty girl to court, and, my boy, you know what? I'll _tell _you what. I, am in the _know_."

Valden had to hide his face, and then bite his hand, to stop himself from laughing. "What sort of know?"

Fedwren glared. "The _know_, Chandler. The _know_. I've got all the threads, and all the linksh…I got _shavvy._"

"I'm sorry? I couldn't quite catch that. Savvy, you said?"

"Course I did! Shavvy. 'Shavvy locale'. I'm in the know bout _all shorts_. Trade in Thariosh. The weight of brocade. Lish Cartwell's _phenomen…_phenom…bloody _wonderful _taste in men. And Darra, of coursh."

"What about Darra?" Valden took the glass out of Fedwren's hand, and stared fixedly at him, suddenly looking extremely angry. "What about my wife?"

Fedwren giggled. "Yesh. She _ish _your wife. Your poor, high-and-mighty, barren wife."

Valden dropped the glass. It splintered as it hit the floor, and Henery Maltster cursed him, demanding payment. He was ignored. "How dare you. You've no right to speak of--"

"--I'm jusht shpeaking truth, you. Don't get sho outraged. I am jusht shaying, like, that your little Darra'sh been married to you for a conshi… a good long time now. Almosht three yearsh? Yesh, almosht three yearsh, and she hashn't had any kind of 'happy event' yet, while her Gretchen-friend'sh had young mashter Aymery and twinsh on the way, the healers'sh been saying. Thish is shad for you, yesh? You'd be an _exchellent _father, I can tell, but…nothing for three whole _yearsh_?" Fedwren raised both his eyebrows at Valden, looking deeply sympathetic. "Musht be shomething wrong, there. You know, on the _inshide_. Either that or she's been ushing that mother of hersh to _shtop _having children, o'coursh."

The old man reached out a trembling hand, and picked up Valden's half-finished pint. "You be looking a bit shtunned Valden. Can I have your drink? I need a drink. Yesh? Good lad. Now, what was I talking aboutsh? _Darra_, thatsh it. Well, everyone knowsh she isn't the mosht _motherly _short. Never been much good with the littlesh. Sho, shtands to reashon that she might jusht take…precautions, or shomething. Wouldn't matter to _her _that they're illegal. No, no. Not to _her_, who thinksh she's Ninver's outstanding moral sh-citizen--"

"--shut your mouth!" Valden stood up so abruptly that he shoved the table forward, to effectively wind Fedwren. "This is slander!"

Fedwren wheezed, eyes bulging, and then laughed, breathlessly. He laughed with his head thrown back and tears spilling down his flushed face. "And your wife ish the biggesht bitch in all Capchen. It'sh a lucky thing she _ish _taking shomething, becaush any child of hersh wouldn't lasht very long. Unlesh, of coursh, I've got it wrong and you repulsh her sho much that she'sh neglecting her wifely duties, ey, you poor, pathetic shod?"

Valden stared at him, sickened, and then turned away. He threw a handful of coins at Henery, who glared, truly indignant, and wondered aloud about the lack of a bargain.

"What's the world _coming _to?" Henery demanded, as Valden slammed the door behind him.

Fedwren sat in his hair, putting his head in his hands. He was crying in earnest, now.

"Bloody Chandlers!"

* * *

Residence of Valden and Darra Chandler, Illian Way, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

Aymery was such a _wonderful _little mite, Gretchen had said. No trouble--all smiles and perfect, gentlemanly behavior.

As Darra tried to loosen the toddler's determined grip on her ear, she vowed never to trust one word that came from Gretchen's mouth ever again.

"You're enjoying this, boy," she muttered, trying to find a way of freeing herself without tearing off her earlobe or breaking his insufferable, but probably very expensive, fingers. "I can tell."

Aymery just howled.

"You were _asleep _when your mother brought you here." Darra, her lips pinched white and eyes wild, sat heavily down on her sofa, holding fast to what she had to call her nephew. "Why couldn't you just stay that way? Then I would have two ears all to myself, and you wouldn't be in danger of getting screamed at by your aunt, who can be _much _louder than you, mister."

She didn't shake him. She had enough self-control not to shake him. She held him desperately, stiffening as Aymery quieted and she felt a warm, rapidly spreading, and most of all _damp _sensation down the back of her neck.

They were both silent for a while.

Then: "Do you know how much this dress cost?"

Aymery gazed tearfully over his aunt's shoulder, at the unfamiliar, spartan living room, and fixed Darra with a brown-eyed look, which told her, very clearly, that he didn't care a jot.

She had enough self-control not to shake him.

Just.

_I am never doing this again, _Darra thought, angrily._ Gretchen can beg, bleeding and naked, but I will _never _be forced to look after her brat, Stormlord be my witness…oh, Gods. He's doing it again. _

Aymery, boneless in her arms, had let go of her ear--but he was staring intently at the fire, and a fuzzy, distorted image of Gretchen at her most insipid and fluffy was staring back at him from the flames.

"No!" she said, loudly, giving the child a light rap on the shoulder. "No magic in here, boy. Being precocious doesn't suit you." Darra knew that the words were probably meaningless to the eighteen-month old, but how was he supposed to learn anything of language if he was only spoken to in that stupid, repetitive 'there's a good boy, _yes _you are' way of his mother's? Anyway, the physical interaction should be easy enough for him to get.

It was. The mirage vanished, but now he was screaming. Again. And some of Valden's books, which Darra had _told _him to put away the night before, were now flying crazily through the air. At the low height, yes, but they were very definitely not in their original, stationary positions on the coffee table.

Darra's head slumped forward, monentarily, and then she screamed.

She stood, opened her mouth, and screamed--hair falling from pins already loosened by earlier struggles, the back of her grey dress stained dark and wet against her skin, glasses on the floor, face matching Aymery's in its shade of brilliant, impossible redness, and let loose.

"You stupid, stupid, evil, wicked, _disgusting_, gods-cursed _thing_! I hate you, and you _know _it, you hear? I _loathe _you. I--"

"--Darra!"

Valden was standing in the doorway.

Then he was moving, face pale and unreadable, snatching Aymery out of his wife's arms and soothing him, rocking him: making the screams change into cries, and the cries into whimpers, and then the whimpers into sleep.

Darra fell back onto the sofa, and started to shake. "Val--"

"--Don't say a word."

Darra stared at Valden, his movements slow and gentle as usual as he handled Aymery, but his face filling with an emotion she had never seen in him before. "You're angry," she breathed, voice wondering.

Valden closed his eyes. "He's only a baby, Darra."

"He's been running me _ragged_." Darra's tone was still soft, and slightly thick, but her eyes were firey.

"But…to scream at him, like that? You could have deafened him, for all we know, and he's helpless."

"You weren't here all day," said Darra, mutinous. "Valden Chandler, you have no idea at all! I could have been so much worse. I was being _restrained_. I didn't even hit him, and what I _wanted _to do was stick his horrible head in the sink with the pump working full blast!"

Valden bit his lip, eyebrows drawing together, face flushing. Still, when he spoke, his voice was calm, but Darra that his teeth had drawn blood. Her eyes widened.

"It was still…inexcusable," he said.

"Well, what can I _do _about it, O Principled One?" she demanded, even though one part of her was looking at her husband's face and quailing. "Appologise? It's not like he's going to understand. Again, he deserved worse than he got, and you _weren't here_ to judge anything. You were at that stupid pub--"

"--Where people are _talking_!" Valden was shouting now, so loud that Darra flinched away from him, and Aymery was startled awake. Realising this, Valden looked immediately guilty and soothed the child for a moment, then looked back up at his wife, eyes upset.

_Like a kicked puppy_, Darra thought, surprised. "People are talking about what?"

"Talking about whom, Darra," Valden's voice had finally cracked. "People are talking about you. I've had Fedwren Rightwork talking at me for half an hour, saying that you…" he swallowed. "Saying that you're barren. That you're _making _yourself barren, because…I don't know why. I can't believe it." He stared at Darra, intently, reaching out one nervous hand. "You do know," he asked, looking devastated, "that taking those sorts of measures are illegal?"

Darra stared.

"_Don't _you?"

The hurt was incredible. Darra hadn't expected it, and now felt utterly helpless as she was filled with sharp, deep pain. Pain with claws, with hooks, dug into her, easily cutting through the weak resistance of her body. That anyone should _say _such a thing. That Valden would _believe _it… she could do two things, she realised. Cry, or get angry. Angrier. Darra nearly laughed at the impossibility of the first option.

"Of course I do, you lackwit!" The woman lifted her chin, and glared. Quickly, she forced her hair back from her face again, working so hard at it that she broke four pins. "Perhaps it has escaped your attention that my mother runs an apothecary? I wouldn't touch those sorts of drugs with a fifteen-foot pole, and you know it. At least," she sniffed, tone like ice, "you should."

Valden looked mildly chastened, but still concerned. "Do you hate children?"

"I hate the child you're holding, Valden," she snapped. "He's spoilt and impossible and the whole world--_including _you, and don't you dare say otherwise--seems to think he can walk on water. The fact that he can barely sit upright without help is conveniently forgotten most of the time. My own child would _not _be Aymery Johannes. It would know its place. I would make sure it knew that from the onset, and that would mean I'd have no reason to hate them. Just because I am the only one with any sense in this family doesn't mean that I'm incapable being a good mother!"

"Darra, I was just--"

Darra stood up, and walked out of the room, shoulders stiff. "Don't say another word, Val. Don't say another word."

* * *

"What, pray, is the _meaning _of all this?"

Uraelle was at the door before Valden and Darra finished their silent breakfast the next morning. She was glaring. It seemed that Henery's clientele had come home with information, as well as their hangovers.

By the time Darra had escorted her elderly cousin to the best chair in the living room, she'd been slapped twice, pinched once, and given looks that would melt some of the weaker metals.

"I am not _very _angry with you, girl," said Uraelle, against all evidence to the contrary.

Darra said nothing. She looked at the wall, keeping her face blank. A red welt was beginning to form on her arm.

"I am, however…most displeased. I will not have any member of this family the centre of gossip. Let alone anything so vulgar as the sort _you _have gotten yourself involved with."

Darra matched her glare. "My behavior has been beyond reproach, cousin Uraelle."

"Be quiet, child. Shutting up makes everyone _else _shut up. You need to learn that. But…we can deal with this."

"Deal with what?"

"Deal with your reputation!" Uraelle's voice was harsh and excited. Her eyes gleamed. Darra had a suspicion that the woman hadn't had this much fun in years. "You will just need to keep quiet, and work—"

"—I always work!"

"Not _that _sort of work, you little innocent. I'd start by buying yourself a fertility charm."

Darra's face twisted in revulsion. "Uraelle!"

"It's your own fault I have to be candid. You've given people cause to be malicious, and this is your prize. Live with it."

"Why do people _care_?" Darra couldn't keep her voice even. It was all too humiliating for words.

Uraelle laughed. "You're just as bad, my girl. We all are. What else is there to care about, save everyone else's business?"

* * *

Darra left her house that day with whispers following her. Whispers and looks; smirks and pitying smiles. Darra tried to walk carelessly through it all, but by the time she left the Chandlery in the evening, her face was pinched, and her shoulders were hunched forward. Defensive.

Fedwren Rightwork nursed he biggest headache he had ever had, and watched.

Then, he laughed, almost running to Lise's door with a bunch of roses.

It took him a long time to persuade her to let him in, but, eventually, he managed it.


	6. Lise

**A Candle to Light Your Honor**

K. Ryan, 2005

**

* * *

**

**Rating: **PG-13, themes.

* * *

**Chapter Five-point-Five: **Lise.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Five-point-five? Well, it's just a way to fit in certain events without actually deviating, per say, from my eight chapter format. Besides, it looks cool, and I'm shallow. There's a much longer note at the end of this, but let's not get to that until later.

* * *

1016, Wort Moon: Residence of Fedwren Rightwork, Highback Street, Ninver, Capchen

_Two years, seven months after a wedding

* * *

_

_No shame. No shame. I am a... ._

Lise kept her head high as she climbed up the broad front steps to Fedwren's house. She was a business woman, with official matters to attend to on Highback Street, she assured herself for the thousandth time, lifting her chin still further before brushing droplets from her white cloth cap. _What is it about Fedwren that makes it always rain? _She wondered, cursing. Even internally, her voice squeaked a little.

Reaching up on her toes to grasp the brass bell-pull, the young woman prided herself on looking over her shoulder only once; just as she prided herself on choosing to wear her sage green serge for its subtle elegance and _gravitas; _not for it's dozen or so tiny buttons that were so particularly fiddly and difficult to unfasten.

"Afternoon to you, Daughter Cartwell." Rickson had opened the door in the midst of Lise's self-congratulations, and was smiling at her politely. The manservant always seemed pleased to see her, these days, a far-cry from his shocked reaction to her ill and hysterical entrance just over seven months ago. It made her uneasy.

"I'm…er…." Swallowing, Lise gave herself a swift mental kick for unnecessary hesitance, and attempted to retain eye-contact. "I'm here to see Master Rightwork."

"Master's detained at present, miss," said Rickson, stepping aside all the same. "But if you'd follow me to his study, then I'll—"

"No!" The shout surprised both of them. "I mean, there's no need for you to hurry Master Rightwork…er…unduly, Rickson. I'll just wait in the tradesmen's parlor."

That got a wider smile. "Daughter Cartwell, that won't do."

Lise glared. "You're being impertinent!"

Rickson leaned forward and took hold of arm. "No, miss, I'm sure. Just performing my duty. Master won't be at all pleased if he knows you've come and gone."

"Let go of me. Now."

Fingers slowly withdrew from her wrist.

"I do beg your pardon, of course. I overstepped."

"You'll be lucky if I don't report you!" Lise shivered, clearing her throat. "I'll wait for him, if you please."

He led her to Fedwren's study and bowed low to her as he left, gently closing the door.

"I'm sure he won't be long for you, Daughter Cartwell."

Click.

Lise looked about her. The room was huge. She had no memory of the dark, ancient looking beams that came down from the peaked ceiling. No recollection of how a wall painted a rich, warm red cut the room, drawing the eye to a clutter of bookcases and mathematical eccentricities that glimmered all-over brass and copper. Globes and angles. An ornate compass rose, each wind labeled in a spidery calligraphy she couldn't read.

There was a fire in the iron grate, and shades covered all of the lamps. There were a great many of them, and the patterns and colorings on paper, glass and even fabric threw shadowy images on all the remaining walls, which would have been white underneath it.

_I'm in a jewelry box_, she thought. _With carpets. _

Lise Cartwell just wanted to curl up somewhere and wait for the world to go away. She'd gone from being fourteen and learning how to draw up the more complicated account books to a barely sixteen-year-old shop owner who had to deal with creditors. It was impossible to understand.

Carefully, eyes down, she smoothed the folds of her dress, wincing at the sight of patches that were barely visible flaws in its dark green. They were flaws that spoke volumes.

"Dearest. You came."

She hadn't heard the door open. "Master!" The shrillness of her voice raised echoes.

Lise's face flamed. "Master Rightwork," she managed, slowly turning to face him. "You and your servant both need to learn how to use one's proper names." The blush just wouldn't go _away_.

Fedwren chuckled. "Forgive me, please. You're familiar with my particular weakness, yes?" Gravely, the older man ushered her to a seat, carefully not touching.

"What can I do for you this time, Daughter Cartwell? Andtry to remember that it's Fedwren, would you? You can call _me _anything you like."

'This time' _was _time. "The Yanjing deal fell. And it's—it's Lise."

She had been expecting a cackle; a reaching hand that she couldn't avoid. Smirks and general self-satisfaction. Instead, Fedwren was looking…_sad_.

"It actually fell?"

Something in Fedwren's concerned, serious tone was angering her. "Yes, it fell!" Instead of high and inaudible, Lise's voice was turning hoarse. "They have a strict code for trading. _Reputation_," she spat, standing abruptly, "is important."

No laughter. No gentle, fatherly shake of the head. This was too much. This was worse than toying with her. How _dare _he?

"Daughter Cartwell—"

"—It's **Lise**." The blush had faded. She was white, and cold; so cold that Lise felt that the bottom of her stomach had dropped out. Why wasn't he playing the usual game, after all the tears she'd shed getting ready for it? "You _know _it is, and you know why I'm here and how after you buy up on my stock you'll be allowed to call me 'dearest' or 'my love' or anything _else _your sick mind can think of, and how if your buying saves me from the debtors house—which it _will_—you'll be able to kiss me more than I let you now, and…and…well, _Fedwren_, you're…it's cursed _Lise_. Don't toy with me any more."

Fedwren stayed silent, watching Lise make up for the breaths she'd forgotten to take.

He swallowed. "You make it sound _cheap_."

The cloth cap fell from Lise's hair as she laughed. "Do we—have—an _agreement_, Master—Rightwork?"

Fedwren answered her; very, very softly. "Agreement accepted, Lise."

* * *

When the Bailiffs came andfound that Lise Celerity Cartwell (proprietor) daughter of Willem Cartwell (deceased) of Cartwell's Creations was not at home, they forced open the door. 

Creditors were always paid in Capchen.

* * *

**Author's Note: **This chapter is cursed. It's been wiped from the hard drive no less than three times, and it loved to entirely change direction every time I attempted reconstruction. There have been plot crises by the dozen, disgusted moments of 'where do I want to _go _with this?' and simple lack of time and motivation. This hasn't been fair on any of you, and I apologize for that. 

Cami. And Ali, of course, because you just can't stop defending my honour. grin Raiblu8 and blue-forget-me-not—whom I pray hasn't forgotten me. Lea, with all your wonderful long reviews, and Tris the weather witch. More wonderful stalwarts: littlehorse and Queen's Own. Jessalae; kateydidnt and tomato-greens. BloodyCrystal and Maiden-of-dark-life, and even Silverchild of the winds—thank you for your thoughts. Finally, rubadubdub and Blaze.

You're all wonderful, and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to review this story.


	7. Pour Slow and Careful

**A Candle to Light Your Honour**

K. Ryan, 2005

* * *

**Author's Note: **Ah, forgive me? Please? Even though I _really _don't deserve it?

* * *

**Chapter Six: **Pour Slow and Careful

* * *

1017, the Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen _

* * *

Three years after a wedding._

* * *

It had been a hot few months, and the boards that were nailed to the windows of Lise's shop were steadily bleaching white. This was one of the few signs of outward dilapidation—the small building's stone foundations had been laid on Ninver's main thoroughfare generations back, fronts had to be kept—but it was telling. The bright patch where Cartwell's Creations' sign had hung had now faded away; nobody knew what had happened to the sign itself, except that it hadn't been sold. 

"That was a dreadful business, wasn't it?" Gretchen, walking the street with Darra, Aymery straining at his mother's hand as he tried to run ahead, shook her head as she passed the forlorn building. "So _sad_, really. She was only a little girl."

Darra winced, stomach cramps had taken to besieging her at random, not that there was anything anyone could do about it. Eating only made it worse, and fasting was making her head pound. She eyed the small windows above the shop with bleary-eyed distaste. They were hung with red curtains. "Why bother pitying her?" she wondered.

Aymery chose that moment to break free from Gretchen, only to be silenced half-laugh when Darra grabbed his shoulder. "Enough of that, young man," she said.

"'Es, Aun' Darra."

The 'Aun' sniffed. "When will you ever teach that child to finish his words off properly? What _I _want to know is why she bothers continuing to live there, and why she bothers to hide where she gets her rent money from."

"Uh, she _does_ work," Gretchen murmured.

"With Fedwren!"

"Well…" the other woman said; eyes' flicking as Darra's had to the window. "It's not as if anyone else is going to employ her, you know."

Darra's grip slackened, and Aymery ran for it again, only to trip over his own leg. The little boy sat in the middle of the street and howled.

In all the fuss of Gretchen wailing and snatching Aymery off the ground, Darra giving up any attempts at being sociable and striding on ahead of the two of them, nothing more was said of the tragic little Lise Cartwell.

* * *

The tragedy herself, however, _had _been watching the scene from above. Her lip curled as she saw an ant-sized Darra Chandler turn out of the Diamond District and into Fairview Lane, Gretchen holding her son close even as she half-ran to catch up. 

"_Hateful_ woman," said Lise, very quiet.

She only used two rooms from the double-story building now, and these were stripped almost painfully bare. The woman thought that she'd never be used to sleeping on a pallet. _At least I've been able to make myself some nice blankets—and the curtains._

There really was something pathetic about being grateful for curtains in an empty room. "Hateful, _hateful_ woman!"

"Isn't she?"

Lise sighed, turning slowly to face Fedwren, who was leaning easily by the door. "How do you know who I was talking about?" she asked, tone carefully bland. She hardly ever startled now.

"Ah, my dear, there are only two people in all Capchen who could ever provoke your sweet self to cruelty." The tall man stretched, his fingers brushing the doorway. "One of them, alas, being myself, and the other," here, Fedwren chuckled, walking towards her, "Darra Chandler." Slowly, he let his hand rest on her hair. "And she _is _hateful."

Lise shivered. "You don't have to sound so happy about it!" she snapped.

"She hurt you," said Fedwren. "How could that make me happy?"

Lise closed her eyes and groaned, banging a fist on the windowsill.

"You're tired, my love." The merchant covered her clenched hand with his large one. "And no wonder, living like this. So _poky._ If you just let me arrange things—"

"Stop asking me that, Fedwren!" Lise pulled away, glaring up at him with wounded eyes. "It's bad enough that I have to work for you to live here. You are _not _going to…furnish me."

"You do know," Fedwren said dryly, "that as far as these things go, you can't really fall any lower, where reputation or the town's concerned. It doesn't _matter _that you haven't actually done anything that the gossip _says_ you've—"

"It matters to _me_!" Lise was shrill, and she backed away further, hands on hips. "It matters to me that's all that ought to matter to _you_."

To her amazement, Fedwren started to laugh, and he was looking at her adoringly. "You sound…you sound like a wife," he said, gasping.

Lise slumped. There was nothing else she could do. "And I will be," she whispered. "But, Fedwren…"

"What is it?"

"Why didn't you save my shop? You _could _have, but you didn't, and I would have done anything. You know that."

The man sighed. "It just wasn't economical. I thought you understood—"

"—I would have managed." Lise lifted her chin. "You could have left me some pride, and you didn't."

"Oh, Lise, don't be like that."

Her hand rested on his arm, nails digging in hard. "There is no reason why I shouldn't be," she said, grip tightening even more.

Fedwren kissed her—teasing, lingering—and she stood in the circle of his arms, close-mouthed and statue-still, until he jerked back, hand clutching at his face in horror.

Lise Cartwell had bitten his lip.

* * *

Bidewell Apothacary, Diamond District, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

"Really, mother, I don't know why you sell this rubbish. It makes you look like a charlatan."

Darra stood in what had once been her childhood room, looking with disgust at the small bag Analise had given her. "They make me sick," she said. "_And _you charge me for them."

"Of course I do, goose."

Ana Bidewell looked at her daughter, flushed and glaring, and she shook her head. "You're looking awfully thin, Darra," she said disapprovingly.

"It's because your blasted medicines are eating _me_." Darra shuddered. "Why are you siding with Uraelle in this? I don't need anyone's helpto fall…with this."

Ana closed the younger woman's stiff fingers over the herb sachet. "Except your husband's, maybe?"

"Mother!"

"Don't you 'mother!' me, my girl." Ana patted Darra's now clenched hand. "Not when I'm only forty-five and you with four brothers and sisters. _I _didn't need any nettle extract, and neither should you—and _nothing _will work if you don't start something to work _with_."

Darra swallowed, blinking hard. Aymery's hysterics had ruined her walk that morning, and now this indignity, coming from this person! "Mother, _please_…" she couldn't look Ana in the eye.

The woman sighed, touching the other's hot cheek. "Go home to Valden," she said.

Taking a great, shuddering breath, Darra turned her back on her mother and half-ran out of the door and then from the shop, not even slowing when passers-by started shooting perplexed looks in her direction. Ana's warm and musical voice echoed behind her.

"That was seven astrels, two creses'!"

* * *

Residence of Valden and Darra Chandler, Illian Way, Ninver, Capchen

* * *

Valden loved the workroom. His brothers had always thought that the making of wares was a necessary but unloved and tiresome step on the road to selling them, but he had always felt most comfortable here, surrounded by moulds and beeswax. If he had to justify it, then he said it was easier to persuade someone to buy when you knew something _was _worth the money, but this justification was only for other people. Valden never needed one for himself.

He was gently stirring a pot, hair falling into his still, calm face, when Darra came in.

"I need you to come with me, now."

Val smiled, but he didn't turn around. "In a minute, love."

"_Now_."

If he didn't know better, Valden could have sworn that there was a tearful hitch in his wife's voice. "Darra?"

"Why aren't you coming, you stupid man?"

Val turned around slowly, confused. "You know I have to be careful with these. They'll spoil if they burn…"

"Ugh!" Darra stamped her foot, and she glared, but something in her face wasn't right. The mannerisms were all there, but this wasn't the Darra Val was used to. "Do I have to _everything_, myself, I ask you—Bethan! **Bethan!**"

Even this, Darra looking fit to kill him as she screamed for the housemaid she kept in defiance of Aunt Uraelle's disdain, was wrong. Uneasy, Val stepped towards her, praying for her health, his own, and the batch of wax's. "She's probably just upstairs…"

"Did I ask you? Bethan, get _down_ here, you insufferable girl!"

Bethan, a tall, gangling cousin of the Wheelers' who was currently trying to fade into the wall as she crept into the room, bowed and swallowed convulsively. She was holding a duster. "So sorry, ma'am," she gasped. "I was in the upstairs salon and I couldn't—"

"Shut up and do what I tell you."

Valden flinched for the girl's sake. "Darra, I don't—"

"Valden Chandler, _did I ask you?_"

Darra was a deranged spectre, all hair and outstretched hands and jutting chin as she advanced upon the small pot of melting wax, examining it with a wild eye. "Bethan, I need you to stir this for…five minutes, and then you have to take it off the heat. Understand?"

Bethan was shivering. "Ye-es, Mistress Darra." She nearly cried out when Darra thrust the large stirring-spoon into her hands. "Five minutes, Mistress Darra."

"Well then, see to it." Darra had Valden by the arm and was dragging him out into the corridor before the man had a chance to blink. He had to match his pace to hers to avoid dislocating his shoulder. He was panting the time they reached the stairs.

"Why terrorise her, Darra? She never—"

"I don't…" Darra, breathless and incredibly red, bunched up her skirts with her free hand, trying to walk even faster. "I don't…care about…Bethan, Val."

They'd made the climb and reached the room. Valden grabbed Darra by the shoulders when she made a fraction-of-a-second pause to breathe. "What _is _it, love?"

Darra shuddered, and Val felt her grow rigid under his hands. Her whole body glared at him. "I'm sick," she said. "And I'm tired and just..."

She couldn't speak any more and, to their combined horror, tears were running down her face. She wrenched herself away, running into their bedroom.

"If all Capchen needs me to have a baby to make them satisfied," she choked out, somehow fearful and scornful in equal measure, "then just bloody well get on with it!"

To Valden, there was nothing about this scene that wasn't sad and somehow very, very frightening. Darra, still sobbing, still glaring, sitting stiff-backed on the immaculate bed, undoing buttons with quick, finicky fingers, her glasses crooked and smudged. He was sickened, guilt hot-and-cold in his chest, and yet…and yet it just wasn't right.

"No," he whispered.

"What did you say?"

"No."

"But…but you _can't_."

Val closed his eyes briefly, and then sat on the bed, carefully leaving space between the two of them. "Darra, why did you marry me?"

Darra started, hiccupping as she turned to look at him, genuinely confused. "Because…because it was a good match."

Val smiled thinly. "If you'd waited a few years you could have found yourself a better one. You know that."

She blushed, and she fell back on the bed, her disgust and exasperation a whimper half-suppressed. "You are an awful, awful man."

"You still married me."

"It was a good match! And I…you _asked_."

"Ah, yes." Valden lay back and then rolled over, leaning on an elbow as he looked down at her. "You always take the first offer."

"I should hit you."

"Forgive me," said Val, "but could it possibly be because you love me—just a little? I don't know why you're so frightened."

Darra slapped him. "I am _not _frightened!"

"Neither am I."

When she kissed him, it was meant to be hard and uncompromising, something to stun him into submission—anything, anything to shut him up—but it was a mess of nose and teeth and anger. His unbearable, open, familiar face was strange to her even after three years of what had become, after the wedding-time had ended, so much reluctant awkwardness in the dark. Her eyes were tearing up again, this from pain.

"Ugh!"

Valden rubbed his aching, bruised forehead and held back a laugh. "Perhaps we should…er…try that again."

Darra swore through gritted teeth. "Do what you li—"

He stopped her with two fingers at her lips. He was quietly surprised that she didn't bite. Leaning in, Valden took his fingers away and kissed her, barely hard enough for pressure to register. One hand gently cupped her face.

Darra's eyes widened, and Val pulled back, questioning. "Better?"

Darra shivered. "Do that again, she managed. "Harder."

After he'd obliged, she glared at him again, before licking her lips. "Where did you learn to do that? You've never done that before. You've been seeing another woman!"

"_Darra_!"

"That…" the woman swallowed, almost smiling, "was…a joke."

"I see. Please don't try another one?"

"No. I don't think I will."

"Good."

"Yes."

"Excellent."

"Shut up. Valden?"

"Darra?"

"Where…where do we go from here?"


End file.
